


What Could Have Been

by ElizabethJaneway1158



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, au outcome, enter at your own risk, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethJaneway1158/pseuds/ElizabethJaneway1158
Summary: This is part one of a three part series. An AU outcome from our Season 7 finale.After Scully falls asleep with Mulder in his hotel room during Requiem, Scully’s symptoms worsen drastically.***Warning: Traumatizing subject matter. Possible triggers listed in the preface.***





	What Could Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> I promise this will have a happy ending! Had to get the angst out of the way first. 
> 
> REVIVAL SPOILER ALERT:
> 
> I loved the idea of baby William, but Chris and the Revival ruined him for me. So, in this AU I am taking away CGB’s ability to mess with the blessed union of our two agents. 
> 
> Thanks to peacenik0 for the Beta. 
> 
> **WARNING: Trigger content for miscarriage.**

Mulder is fast asleep when she extricates herself from the warm safety of his arms. The growing intensity of the cramping low in her belly quickly becoming cause for alarm. Scully barely makes it onto the freezing tile of the bathroom before completely losing her footing.

She’d told him she’d be fine. It was probably nothing. Well, instinctually she knew that she needed to make an appointment when they left Oregon. Nothing she couldn’t muscle through. Yet, since the intimacy has grown between them, Mulder is even more attuned to her wellbeing.

The ill feeling rolling through her stomach and the pounding in her head left her even more vulnerable to the beautiful bittersweet words Mulder had soothed her with.

He’d shown her what was on his heart, given her an out. She didn’t need one. Didn’t want to go home, and be the reason he stopped looking. They can still have the work, and each other.

No need for grand gestures, not when they’re so close. Back where it all began what seems like more than a lifetime ago. There has already been such sacrifice, she wouldn’t dare add insult to injury. They’ve come too far to turn back now.

The sharp pain deep in her abdomen and back seeps into her legs, immediately leeching her control to propel forward; Scully can only gasp for air as it radiates throughout her body, sudden tears burning at the backs of her eyes. Bracing herself against the small vanity, she is powerless to keep from sliding to the floor.

She manages to eek out a choking sob, her shaking hands desperately trying to find something to grab onto to pull herself from the ground. She blindly sends Mulder’s toiletries clattering to the floor. That’s when she feels it.

Wool slacks discarded, she’s paralyzed by the hot sticky rush that quickly breeches the cotton of her underwear, moving to coat her thighs. Nausea, vomiting, fatigue, chills, dizziness, and now cramping and heavy bleeding.

The implications of her signs and symptoms are an even stronger blow than the fresh wave of agony that twists her insides.

“Scully?” His sleepy call scares her even more. _No. He can’t come in here. He can’t see—_

The shock swells in her chest. No sooner than she begins heaving for breath, a sleep-numbed Mulder appears in the doorway. She gapes at him while he takes in the tragedy as it starts to unfold; the mere seconds passing like hours between them. Before she can gather her wits to call him off, he slams into gear and rushes to her side.

“Jesus! God, Scully! What—” He’s touching her, probing, reaching for towels and pressing them to her, searching for the source of the alarming amount of blood staining her and the tile.

“Scully, talk to me! What is—oh, shit.” He’s found it. Gingerly, he moves to spread her legs.

“Stop.” Mulder is deaf to her mumbled order.

“Scully, are y—I don’t—“ He is in a blind panic.

“No. Stop,” she whimpers, swallowing back the tremor in her tone.

“Y-You need help. Jesus, Sc—I need to get you help.” He’s trying to move her, take her into his arms. If she lets him, she’ll break. She can’t. She won’t.

 _“No.”_ Scully’s voice returns with only enough power to gruffly articulate her anguish. Her entire being shakes with the effort of it. Meant to be stern, it ripples through the silence, visceral and desperate.

She pushes him away and struggles for purchase, attempting to right herself. _This isn’t happening._ She needs to get cleaned up. Scrub the evidence away.

_This is not happening._

Scully loses her stamina, settling back against the sink cabinet. Mulder has disappeared and she is thankful. Only wanting the encroaching darkness to finally swallow her whole. The inky black of it seeping in, fogging her mind.  

Mulder is back, speaking. She doesn’t hear what he says. She can’t bring herself to listen. If she clutches her stomach tightly, she can move. Stave off enough of the crippling spasms to crawl to the corner of the room. She wants to be alone. Needs to be alone.

“I think—You should stay still. Try not to—“ He cannot continue; Mulder swallows painfully against the urgency rising in his throat.

Slowly he makes his way to Scully, curled tightly in on herself, staring off into nothingness. For the first time in a while, he is reminded just how small she actually is; tucked beside the bathtub. The thick iron tang charging the air is enough to make his own stomach churn.

He’s wrapping her in towels, covering her bare legs. Why? What is he doing?

“Stop.” It’s a hollow whisper.

“No, Scully. Let me clean y—“

“Stop.” She bats his hand away. “It’s over. Done.” Her bottom lip quivers dangerously and she sinks her teeth into it. She will not give in.

_This. Is. Not. Happening!_

An eerie calm of acceptance washes over her, followed abruptly by heart-racing rage. The glaring injustice of it. The last round of IVF was months ago. Which, by some miracle, meant it had to have been a natural conception. There’s no way an embryo would’ve survived that long.

“Dana—“

Scully turns her face completely away from him, pressing herself impossibly closer to the cold unforgiving porcelain. He swipes a hand over his eyes, wiping at the bit of moisture threatening to spill over.

Mulder says no more, reaching for her, only to think of her wishes and settle for simply sitting next to her. Waiting. Begging any higher power that what he thinks is happening isn’t what is happening. He had stopped imagining, hoping, that he could give her the gift of life.

His movements are stiff, repetitive. He gives in and touches her as if she’s made of glass, fidgeting and tucking the scratchy stiff towels closer to her bare legs. She’s shivering, Shame and indignation rise hotly on the apples of her chilled cheeks. The uncontrollable chatter of her teeth brings her closer to the surface.

“Scully. Will you let me—“

“No,” she grunts. The burning squeeze in her abdomen is back with a vengeance. Scully grits her teeth and growls, folding her body in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Mulder makes an indiscernible sound at the back of his throat.

“The hospital isn’t th—“

“Don’t.” Scully recoils. “I don’t want—don’t _need_ medical attention.”

“Damnit, Scully!” He feels like an ass when she flinches.

His fist pressed tightly against his lips; he becomes acutely aware of how ill-prepared he is. Scully always takes care of everything. _Always._ Even during her cancer, he never needed to make quick decisions, answer any question or stumble through forms.  

Mulder is lost. He lets his hand fall back to her thigh staring blankly at the crimson blooming on the bleached white terry cloth.

“I am a medical doctor.” He has heard her state this fact on several occasions. Never has he witnessed the hollow husk that carries her words from her dry lips. “I can assess myself.”

“Scul—“

“Please. Leave me alone.” The careful enunciation conveys the finality of her request.

“I’m sorry, I don’t— _What if you need help._ ” God, he wants someone qualified to take care her. Help her. Heal her. Give back what is rightfully hers.  

The remainder of their conversation dies in his throat. He wordlessly rises, multiple scenarios running rampant through his mind.

Scully uses this time to compartmentalize, rationalize, assess, and diagnose.The pain seems to be remaining at a tolerable level, tolerable for her. The experience similar to her trip to the ER earlier this year. The loss Mulder hasn’t been told about yet. Each time she had tried, she failed miserably. Unable to even bring herself to accept the second implantation had taken, only to be shed from her body four short weeks later.

Scully estimates herself to be just shy of six weeks, she would need to take a look at her calendar to be certain. The disgust of infertility has fostered apathy toward her religious cycle tracking. She shouldn’t bleed long. Heavily the first three days and diminishing for a few days afterward.

Treatment: Rest. Hydration. Small balanced meals throughout the day, monitoring blood sugars and pressure. Visit to primary care and O.B. consult by the end of the week.

She shifts stiffly on the floor, frighteningly lethargic. Doing her best to collect herself, Scully kneels over the edge of the bathtub. Turning on the tap, she removes only her blouse, slipping in to sit in the tub with her underwear on.

She pulls the tab and lets the meager spray of the shower head tumble over her. The cramping continues and she has to argue with her stomach to keep itself in check. Her eyes slip closed, unable to watch the water run red.

Her mind’s eye can see Mulder. Pacing frantically. Sitting on the edge of the bed, only to run a ragged hand through his hair and stand once more.

 _“Let me in, Scully,”_ her imaginary Mulder pleads.

She wants to. She wants nothing more than to let him in. But she’s unable. Not yet. She can’t even let herself in, the icy tendrils of reality just beginning to spread over her. She needs time. Time and space to bury the pain and disappointment. The fear and anger.

Silence. Blissful silence. Scully listens to the water as it sluices over her head, striving to pace herself through the shock of realization that threatens to consume her. She had been pregnant. Without the IVF. Six months ago they had started sleeping together. Unprotected. They had conceived—

Her breathing turns shallow. She’s too far gone to stop the accelerating rhythm of hyperventilation. She wills herself to calm, but it’s as if all the oxygen has been pulled from the room.

There’s a knock at the door.

“I’m f-fine, Mulder. I just—“ She hiccups, gulping in a shuddering breath. ‘Just’ what? Having a miscarriage? If it weren’t so absolutely devastating, she would push herself up and rush to the sanctuary of her own room.

She can hear a harsh gasping, punctuated with a dry barking cough. She’s going to be sick; only when she clasps her hand to her mouth and gags does she realize the sounds are coming from her.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks softly. She goes rigid, holding on to the illusion of strength in resentment.

She doesn’t answer for a while, dropping her lips to rest against her forearm.

“Can you hold me,” she mumbles. The curtain moves and Mulder is there. Stepping in behind her to sit and wrap himself around her.

“Yeah, I can do that.” He leans her back against him, resting his cheek against her wet hair.

“C’mere. Breathe with me.” He’s so warm and tender. “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe. I’m here. I’ve got you.” She can hear the click of his glottis. His shaking exhales contradicting his efforts to calm her.

Scully begins to feel him there, she can practically hear his racing mind and _it’s too damn much._ She wavers, breathing through her nose and leaning slightly out of his embrace.

He remains, captures and moves with her. Mumbling to the both of them against the crown of her head.

“We’ll go home tomorrow. After you’ve had some sleep. I’ll get us packed and we’ll, uh—Christ, Scully. What are—Did the last one actually take?” Mulder regrets it the second the question leaves his stupid insensitive mouth.

But, he can’t. He can’t sit here and not process. Attempt to find everything in his power to fix her. “Scully, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—“

He can feel her blow all of the air from her lungs against his wet skin.

“I was pregnant.” The clinical detachment is fading fast. “Too late for the implantation. It, uh, w—We— _Oh, G—“_

She wilts into him, unable to tamp down her reaction any longer, briefly suffocated by the pressure of opening herself. Allowing herself to be present in the moment, her facade crumbles into ruins.

This. This is what hurts the most. The thought of what could have been. The weight of all that has been lost. She is deathly silent. He’s terrified; would she let him take her to the hospital now?

Her back starts to vibrate against him. A moan stretches from the very depths of her, long and low until she’s run out of every last ounce of energy. Mulder has never heard such a lamenting noise; it takes his breath away. Echoes in his heart and soul.

She’s sagged against him, completely boneless; he can feel when she tenses, the need to move with her contracting muscles. Completely exhausted, she grasps at the arm wrapping around her chest with both hands. They support her just the way she needs them to.

He shakes with her; his worry for her and anguish of his own building under his breast bone. Mulder pulls her tight, pressing his lips everywhere they can reach.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” Their tears mingle with one another, circling the drain along with the blood tinged water.


End file.
